


Live-Action

by Lightspeed



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bars and Pubs, Betrayal, Cooking, Diners, LARPing, M/M, Objectifying Medic, Roleplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-20
Updated: 2016-03-20
Packaged: 2018-05-28 00:51:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6307279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lightspeed/pseuds/Lightspeed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>LARPing can be a fun, social, silly, and addictive hobby.  And luckily for the other players at Helen's monthly fantasy game, Dell Conagher's been granted the reigns to write plot this month, culminating in a direct confrontation between the goblinoids and fae populations in and around the fantasy town of Teufort, dragging the town's residents (the game's player characters) into the middle!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Live-Action

“Welcome tae the Winkin' Cyclops Inn! What can I get ye lads?” The broad smile of the one-eyed Scotsman behind the bar would have been arresting, were it not for the fact that Scout had seen it a million times. Didn't make it any less pleasant, but all the same, of the group of adventurers currently stepping over the threshold into the large wooden building, he was the only one not to stop dead in surprise at the man's real Scottish brogue, rather than the affected ones attempted by several other Americans on camp.

The inn was a large hall, a series of long tables with bench seats arranged to one side, with a fireplace containing a roaring fire against one wall with a few threadbare couches nearby. At the other end of the room was a series of doors, each leading to a set of quarters, rooms to be rented for the modest price of one gold for the weekend, as well as one room reserved for the innkeeps. At the middle of the room, across from the entrance, was the bar, with a smiling Tavish DeGroot, celt alchemist, standing behind it.

The strikingly handsome black man wore his hair tight to his head, a band of tartan cloth in the red, black, and white of the Clan Cunningham tartan, matching the kilt around his waist and the sash across his chest. His vambraces and breastplate were made of leather, and he wore a loose, gauzy white shirt beneath, with wide sleeves. A set of braces ran from his belt over his shoulders, acting as bandoliers to hold a series of glass vials closed with cork and containing sloshing, multicoloured liquids, each labeled with a small piece of parchment to denote them as potions and detail their effects. Hanging from a peg on the wall, a claymore constructed of foam, plastic pipe, and duct tape hung in its scabbard, ready to be grabbed at a moment's notice.

Behind him was a curtain, separating the bar from the kitchen, and the in-game room from the modern, out-of-game facilities including stoves, ovens, electric lights, refrigerators, a microwave, a coffee maker, and stainless steel tables. Hidden by the bar, a small cooler filled with bottles of juice and soda sat by Tavish's feet, their in-game alcoholic equivalents and prices in silver pieces listed on a hand-lettered sign hung on the wall by the curtain. The bartender himself was cleaning a wooden goblet with a rag, still dusty from being taken out of its monthly storage.

Scout sauntered up to the bar and snatched up one of the stools, taking a seat. He dug around through the pouch hanging from his belt and slapped down five silver pieces on the bar. As the others he had been traveling with finally milled into the room and took up seats by the fire, eager to sit on the soft couches and get off of their feet. “Gimme some a' that fancy-ass elvish cider you got, Tav,” Scout ordered, giving the barkeep a buck-toothed grin in greeting.

Tavish smirked in acknowledgment of his friend. Scout was his job, but also the name he went by, unwilling to share the name he was given. He claimed it was embarrassing; florid and pretty and elvish, and preferred the title in its place. Said it summed him up just fine. Scout was a gangly lad, cute definitely, but nothing like the fair beauty his people were always talked up for. Sure, he had the long ears (latex attached with liberal amounts of spirit gum) and he bright eyes, but he'd never met any other elf with a mouth as loud as his. The elf wore only vambraces to armour himself, a blue tunic, dark trousers, and knee-height boots of soft leather being his only other protection from the elements. At his belt he kept a fancy latex short sword on each side of his hips, and he certainly ran as swift as the wind and handled his blades like the stories would laud, so maybe there was something to legends and hearsay.

“Aye, comin' up, lad.” Tavish pulled a bottle from the cooler behind the counter. It was a swing-top affair with green glass, and from it, he poured dark brown apple cider into the wooden goblet he had just finished cleaning. He passed the cup and took the money, depositing it into a lock box under the bar, and put the bottle away. “So what's the news on the border, eh?”

“Ah, same shit as always,” Scout replied, taking a sip and relishing the flavour. Cold cider was wonderfully refreshing on the warm summer day, even if it did little to quench his thirst. He'd ask for water next. First, he would enjoy spending the silver he'd found on that goblin squad earlier. The monster marshal had been liberal giving the NPCs loot, which probably meant bad things were on the horizon, but hey, he didn't know that in-game. “Goblins, hobgoblins, a few bugbears, that sorta thing. Me an' the boys,” he indicated the others, a group of teens and twenty somethings, dressed in dark leathers and sheathed blades, two of whom wore furry ears on headbands and false tails, their skin painted with the markings of house cats, “managed to ambush a squad of gobbos this mornin', but it's gettin' me a little concerned. I mean those guys, they're new. Just rolled into town last night on the tail of that orc war band. They dunno, but you seen it. It's been gettin' more frequent the past couple months, ain't it?”

Tavish nodded, more than aware of how much trouble the local orcs and goblinoids have been stirring up as of late. It had him uneasy. Those sorts of sorties, testing the local defenses and probing for weak points, they smacked of a larger movement to be made in the near future. What was worse, night was slowly approaching, which had him all the more worried. It was a full moon this month, and he prayed to the lunar goddess that the ritual he and Mundy had undertaken last month would hold. “Ye seen hide or hair o' Mikhail or the Doc?”

He had seen the pair earlier that day. High level players, powerful characters, Mikhail the medved berzerker, a man from the frozen north who wore furs and swung a massive axe he called Sascha, and his lover, a mysterious, white-clad necromancer/cleric who was only referred to as Doktor or Doc. The man specialized in getting people up, be it healing them from their death count, or raising their corpses as undead minions while their souls waited to be pulled from the afterlife by the village oracle. Few people stayed dead in Teufort, but with Doc around, it didn't mean their bodies wouldn't pull their weight while they suffered the temporary condition. Hopefully with them around, whatever was coming would have a harder time of assaulting the town.

“Saw 'em on the way back, but it looked like they were headed up the road to Creek a few miles off. Said somethin' about supplies for Doc's work? Didn't wanna ask, not with the kinda shit he does.” Scout shivered a little at the thought.

“So they'll be off at least six hours, possibly more,” Tavish sighed. His expression was grim, and with a shake of his head and a look to the new players who were engrossed in their own conversation, leaned across the bar, his voice low. “Bloody hell, they've got those two on NPC for main mod? Together? It doesn't matter the build, their teamwork'll have us dead, mod boss or nae!”

“They're a freakin' force a' nature alright,” Scout shrugged. “Whatever Logistics is brewin' for tonight, it's gonna be a meat grinder. An' they're gettin' us ready, too. All the NPCs I run across've had potions an' components an' silver galore, man. That piddly little goblin raid? They threw Jane at us as a third rank hobgoblin! Fucker was throwin' sever limbs!”

“Jane's too good a fighter with boffer. Big meaty arms swing that shite like it's light as latex.”

“You ain't kiddin',” Scout chuckled. “It's gonna be a fun one tonight.”

“Aye, well hopefully the feast's ready before the bloody thing kicks off, else nobody'll be there tae get killed!”

“Yeah, speakin' a' that, what _is_ the feast this month? I know  Helen's got Dell runnin' plot marshal all weekend since the whole orc invasion clan warfare thing is one he wrote, so who's cookin'?”

“Mickey's out back. Wind's been blowin' the smell off, but lad's got one hell o' a treat on the way.  Here, let's quit the out o' game chatter and I'll show ye.”

Scout hopped off his stool, making sure to grab his goblet to take with, and gestured to the door. “Lead away.” He cast a look to the new players. “Hey, we're steppin' outside a sec. One thing you gotta know 'bout Teufort? You don't fuck with the Winkin' Cyclops. No stealin'. Coin or drinks. Make you real unpopular real quick here.”

One of the two catfolk of the group nodded, her voice high-pitched and meek, “Yessir, Mister Scout!”

Tavish slung his claymore over one shoulder and led Scout out, tossing him a look once they were outside the door.

“Dark church, the whole lot 'a them,” the elf clarified. “I don't like to stereotype, but I ain't met a death priest yet I felt like I could trust, you get me?”

“I get ye,” the celt chuckled, and led his companion around back.

Sitting near the shore of the lake that the  inn sat beside, straddling it gently with a dock easily reached from the building's porch, was a large metal roaster, hot coals filling its belly, and upon its spit was a slowly rotating hog. Its skin was a golden brown, and Scout grimaced a little at the sight of its slightly charred face. Turning the roaster's crank to spin the swine was a tall, lanky half-elf wearing a wide-brimmed hat and leathers, though his armour had been shed in a pile nearby along with his bow and quiver after hours of doting on the cooking meal. A smile crossed his long, narrow face at the sight of the approaching men. “Was gettin' lonely,” he greeted, Australian accent bearing a warm gravelly tone. Tavish walked up to him and wrapped his arms around the skinny ranger, dipping him a little for a kiss and setting him to laughing before letting him get his feet back under him.

“ Well it was yer daft idea tae cook a whole bloody pig this month,” Tavish teased, giving his lover's backside a gentle swat.

“Wouldn't've if I'd realized it meant I'd 'ave to spend half the day away from you,” the half-elf pouted playfully. “I do enough of that during the work week.”

“You're shittin' me, Mundy. A pig roast?” Scout marveled, approaching the roaster and reaching in to poke at the slowly crisping skin of the hog.

“And don't you bloody touch it, you long-eared little gremlin,” Mundy admonished, finally letting go of Tavish long enough to return to his task. “It'll not be ready another hour, and I'll not 'ave a player come down with trichinosis or something because the twinky elf couldn't keep 'is sticky fingers to 'imself.”

“Isnae 'twinky elf' a bit o' a pleonasm?” Tavish asked, jutting out his lip in thought.

“I ain't no pleonasm!” Scout barked back with a growl.

“Lad, d'ye ken what a pleonasm is?”

“A'course I know what a pleonasm is! What kinda dipshit do you take me for? Askin' if I know what a pleonasm is! Like that ain't common knowledge or some shit! I know all about pleonasms! If I were a ranger, my favoured enemy would be pleonasms!” Scout threw his arms up, insulted at the implication, utterly scandalized.

“No idea, eh?” Mundy chuckled, watching Scout deflate at the jibe. He smirked, then changed the subject, eager to avoid admitting that he, too, had no idea what the hell Tavish was on about. “See any smiths about today?”

Scout and Tavish shook their heads, the Scot offering, “Dell's runnin' plot this event, so I dinnae ken if he's sent out any NPC smiths. Missed Misha, too. Scout says he and the Doc are headin' tae their NPC shift.”

“Ah, sod it. Still need me bloody knife repaired from that break weapon I took last night.”

“Eh, Misha doesn't have weapon repair anyway. He specced for the armour tree,” Scout added.

Mundy shrugged. “Well, here's 'opin' I don't end up in melee tonight, then.”

“If ye do, yer doin' it wrong, love.”

 

*

 

“Alright, Jane. Here's the script for you,” Dell announced, handing the taller man a printout, then turning back to his laptop. The dusty yurt in which they sat was strewn about with boffer weapons, makeup, costuming, armour, bedding, baby wipes, and used makeup sponges. Water bottles in various states of fullness littered the room. A stack of red solo cups sat on the other end of the plastic folding table upon which Dell's laptop and printer were perched, a series of half-empty soda bottles clustered nearby, along with a series of pens and pencils scattered around. Power cables led in an awkward tangle of extension cords and surge protectors to the single outlet in the structure, bolted half-heartedly to one of the wooden supports of the yurt when the campsite had been modernized decades earlier. A wood stove sat near one wall, precariously close to a plastic tote tub of white boffer claws, and a ceiling fan spun lazily at the centre of the yurt, just beneath the plastic bubble that functioned as its peak-cum-skylight. A few players of various ages, dressed in black sweats and neutral colours, were donning costuming in preparation for a quick goblin raid down by the elven encampment. Dying sunlight streamed in through the skylight and the mesh windows revealed by rolled-up canvas walls, and the whole structure reeked of a mixture of grease paint, sweat, wood smoke, and leather.

Jane sat in a nearby folding chair, black circles under his eyes from a mixture of exhaustion and makeup that would not come off through the application of baby wipes alone. He looked up from staring off into the middle distance and took the script from Dell, giving it a look. “Didn't think I'd have one, not being mod boss.”

“You got your own role to play,” Dell replied, not looking up from his screen as he typed, making last-minute adjustments to statistics. “We can't make this easy on 'em, after all. This is the mid-season jump-off! It's only gonna get harder 'til November.”

“Cannot wait to see what is planned for finale,” came the amused rumble of a large Russian man, stooping to enter the yurt's terribly short door.

“Misha, there you are!” Jane hollered with a broad grin, calling his friend by his PC's nickname. He waved hello, and extended the gesture as the giant's lover followed him in, closing the door behind him. “Hello, Doc!”

“Ah, hallo Jane,” Doc waved, digging about in the pocket of his brown trousers, out of costume and feeling entirely too exhausted for Saturday evening.

Friday had been a slog. It had rained, which made everything slower, harder, and more tiring. Most players tended to sign up for NPC shifts Friday night, so logistics had a lot of people to work with. Dell had sent goblin raiding parties all night until the cutoff time of around four AM, leaving the players with precious little sleep if they didn't want to sleep the next day away. Everyone was feeling it, for good or ill.

“Well if'n you're curious, I got your scripts right here,” Dell offered, pulling up two fresh printouts to hand to the experienced players. “Misha, you ready to tear a swath through 'em?”

Misha took the page and looked it over. It began with his stats as mod boss, then continued on with a simplified outline of the mod's plot and progression, and his script. His eyes glossed over the numbers he'd be throwing, and he grinned. “This is barely fair,” he appraised, more than a little excited. “Will be bloodbath. Is good.”

“I am not looking forward to how much makeup this will take,” Doc chuckled, looking his own script over. “Though it has been a while since I've had a role that lets me show off.”

“Moy golubchik will be most handsome faerie prince,” Misha said, wrapping an arm around the smaller man's waist and tugging him close against his side.

“Alright, so make sure you get those in your heads,” Dell ordered with a smile. “We got a lotta prep to take care of, and Feast's soon, so in about forty we'll thrown on the white headbands, go chow down, then come back and get to work on costumin' and setup. Pauling's workin' on the site right now with Bidwell and Reddy gettin' it ready.”

“Reddy's getting it ready?” Doc giggled in spite of himself.

“Dial it back,” Dell frowned.

 

*

 

Tavish peeked back into the kitchen, eyes sweeping over the goings-on. The Feast had come and gone, leftover meats piled in disposable chafing dishes and refrigerated in the camp's walk-in fridge, and bones thrown in old cardboard boxes they had brought, then bagged and brought down to the dumpster at the camp's entrance. Dishes were being finished up, Mundy drying the last of them and thanking a few NPC volunteers who were on their way out. “Ye finished up in there?” he asked.

“Yeh, workin' on final touches. Need help up there?”

“Nae, business is slowin' down. Looks like most o' the town's in a meat coma now, though.”

It was true. Couches and chairs were littered with sleepy LARPers, deprived of sleep and stuffed full of roast pork and sides. The NPCs, with their white headbands denoting their lack of existence in-game, had already peeled out, having gone back to logistics to prepare for the evening, getting a head-start while the rest of the town digested.

“I'm gonna die,” Scout moaned, strewn half across the couch and half across the lap of a faekin fire mage who always wore a mask. They wore reds in billowing layers, their mask, a black, featureless face, was fitted with black lenses behind the eye holes, a balaclava covering the rest of their head and face, creating a strange, otherworldly look, others completely unable to see the person beneath the costume. The fabrics of their costume sparkled, fulfilling the glitter costume requirement for their character race. Their gloved hands idly played with Scout's hair, lulling the elf even as he complained. They preferred to play with the hair of the long-haired elves, but Scout would do in a pinch. Who ever heard of an elf with short hair, though?

“Yer nae goin' tae die!” Tavish called over with a chuckle, shutting the curtain and turning back to the bar. He checked the lock box, which was filled with silver from the after-dinner rush for sugary and caffeinated beverages. The players needed to survive through main mod, and he was happy to enable them.

The masked faekin patted Scout's head and chuckled, their voice muffled behind the mouthless mask, “It would be a great way to go. Death by delicious.”

Scout laughed at that, then groaned and held his gut. “Oh man, don't make me laugh, Pyro! I'm gonna shake apart!”

Suddenly, a scream rang out in the distance, echoing through the woods and through the open windows of the inn. A few players jerked to their feet, setting down drinks and taking up arms, and charged out the door to find the source. Pyro had been among them, upending Scout and sending him flopping back to the couch as they bolted out from under him. Scout rolled off of the couch with a grumble, and began to get his things together.

Weapons and armour were re-equipped, spell packets readied, and several mages and clerics began to sort out what sort of buffs they were going to hand out, and to whom. It was starting.

Mundy emerged from the curtain, slinging his bow over his shoulder. “What was that?”

“We'll find out soon,” Tavish replied gravely.

The distant sound of combat reached their ears. Cries of exertion, calls of, “Two damage! Two damage! Break limb,” and the crunch of boots on gravel. Heavy footfalls, rushing toward the inn, came closer, and with a bang, the door was flung open, a cleric and Pyro hurrying inside holding up a slim, narrow man with high cheekbones, wearing furry pants, foam hooves on his boots, and a pair of small, nubby goat's horns attached to his forehead with spirit gum; a satyr. Dell, wearing a white headband, followed them in, out-of-game. Townsfolk made way for the new arrival, his escorts helping him to a seat and checking her vitals. Healing spells were applied, and a free drink was given (after a bit of haggling with Tavish), and when he was able to speak, he told them a goblinoid army was coming, intent on seizing the foothold the elves and fae creatures have in the region, seeing their alliance with the human city-states as a huge threat. And Teufort's melting pot population was their next target.

“Prince Aelfric,” he lamented, “He was on his way here, to head off the army and offer assistance. The people of this land have proven themselves fae-friends many times in the past, and so he rode with a retinue from the Otherworld gate at Waer! He sought to lay a well to Tir Na Nog here. It would not last long, but it would be the reinforcements you needed. But he was waylaid! Their terrible leader, the bugbear Anathemar, he discovered our task, and personally led the charge. I was able to flee at my prince's command, to bring word! He was not slain, and when I last looked back he was being dragged down and bound. I suspect he is to be ransomed, if not tortured! Please, the Seelie Court has long been an ally of your nation!” His performance was a bit over-dramatic, but he sold it with gusto.

A series of questions were asked, and discussions were had. A few hardliners cautioned against working with fae. A few faekin took offense. A dust-up was had, quelled by the overwhelming desire of most townsfolk to see Anathemar brought to justice. A particularly large orc with a moustache, a hat, leather kilt and boots, and not much else, demanded the chance to brawl with the bugbear and his army. He announced that there was no sport in fighting fae, which raised a few more arguments. Once things had calmed down, the rest of the battle party returned, confirming that the satyr had indeed been chased by hobgoblins, and that they had been equipped for war.

A few spells were cast, and Dell explained the results of their scrying and information gathering. When a battle plan was set, the bar was closed up, the lock box full of silver stashed in Tavish and Mundy's room behind high-level lock and a few traps, and the town geared up and headed off, led by the satyr to the site of the attack.

 

*

 

Chatter and jokes filled the woods as the players tromped down the paths to the attack site. A few NPCs, hearing them coming, laid down on the path, scattered around, weapons strewn about.

“Shit!” Scout called, jogging up to inspect the damage. He looked to Dell walking with them, “What do I see?”  
“Exactly what you see. Bodies everywhere, weapon in the dirt. Blood spatters the trees and ground. A few of the corpses are goblins, but the overwhelming number are various fae. They ain't just been killed. They were slaughtered. More wounds than they needed, like they were beat on after they went down. The prince's horse lays dead and partially-eaten in the middle of the road. There's hate here,” the short Texan replied, his voice raised so the rest of the players could hear as they gathered.

“Bloody hell,” Tavish frowned, opening the clasp on a pouch at his belt filled with fabric bags of birdseed, tied with rubber bands—spell packets, or in his case, alchemy phys reps. He wanted his bombs ready.

“Mundy, can you get us a lead in which way the noids went?” Scout asked, beckoning the high-level ranger over.

After a bit of roleplay, checking the area, inspecting for footprints, checking the trees for broken branches, the half-elf finished counting out the time required to use his skill, then announced, “Tracking rank five. Do I get anythin', Dell?”

“There's a lot of them. A _lot._ And they headed off in that direction,” Dell pointed down a wide path that led to a large clearing that the players knew well. “You see one set of hoofprints amongst them.”

“This way,” Mundy announced, and headed off in that direction, unslinging his bow and tugging a foam-tipped arrow from his quiver. The rest of the town followed, the nervous satyr slipping to the back of their ranks, tired and ill-equipped after his desperate escape.

When they came upon the clearing, they were welcomed by the sight of a troop of goblins and hobgoblins, a few orcs spread amongst them. The area was decked out in skulls and bones and other proof of a temporary camp hastily set up by goblinoids. NPCs in green and grey face paint and tattered leathers brandished clubs and swords as they milled about. At the centre of it all, a particularly well-armoured orc bearing a handaxe and small shield was barking orders at the other goblinoids, telling them to set up a defense.

“Since we haven't had word yet, I am forced to assume your failure squadmates could not track down and kill a single terrified faerie! A disgrace!” Jane barked, his words slurring a little around the plastic tusks he wore. “Shore up defenses! Organize into squads! I need you in the forest, tracking down these faerie-humping Teufort jokes and fertilizing the earth with the contents of their sliced-open bowels! They cannot interfere with Anathemar's interrogation! It is a delicate operation, and we need their prince alive if we're going to get these humans to give in to our demands!”

Sounds of agreement came from the orc's troops, only to quickly change to shrieks of horror and bellows of rage at the approach of the player characters. Cries alerting him to their presence rang out, and he turned his attention on the path, and the approaching townsfolk. “Too late, then. CHARGE!”

The PCs and NPCs tangled in combat, foam weaponry swinging through the air, thudding against bodies and other weapons, combat ensuing with swift brutality. Numbers were called, damage hollered as rapid mental math was done amid the chaos. Spell packets flew, magical damage and effects called. Skills were thrown, and arrows sailed. Tavish pulled a packet out, and after a bit of pantomime to prime the bomb that it represented, threw it into the horde of goblinoids. “Explosive flask! Ten damage and ten foot knockback from impact!”

NPCs staggered away from where the packet had landed, selling the damage and being cut down by eager players surging forward to take advantage of the opening. A couple of goblins died on the spot, theatrically throwing themselves to the ground before scrambling out of the way of tromping feet and surging crowds. None had treasure, so they held their weapons atop their head to designate their out of game status and ran back behind some trees to count out their recycle before coming back as fresh, new goblins with the same stats.

Jane waded through townsfolk, hooking weapons with his axe and dragging them away, leaving openings for his troops to use. He wasn't supposed to, of course. Weapon hooking wasn't game-legal, but most people were just happy he wasn't disarming them. Dell hollered over the din, but it was lost amid cries of damage assailing the orc from all sides. He counted in his head as he swung his own strikes, cutting down a few players and calling defenses. He lifted his shield to block an incoming arrow, and caught a spell for his effort. The damage was enough to fell him, and after a solid fifteen minutes of combat, he crumpled to the ground. It was another five minutes before the rest of his troops were taken out, their recycles spent, and the NPCs scattered to the woods to regroup at the next fight site.

Mundy checked Jane, inspecting him for anything important on his person, and Scout took the chance to rifle his pockets for any coin or items he found. Jane dug in the pouch on his belt and handed Scout a small potion bottle labeled with a strip of paper and a few gold coins, then confirmed to Mundy that he bore nothing important, but handed him item cards for his weapons and armour, all made of magical materials. Mundy pocketed the cards, figuring he would distribute the loot later, and stood, motioning for everyone to follow. Once healing was taken care of, they headed off, crossing the clearing and heading into a copse of trees.

At its other side, they came upon a wide grassy area, marked with a single, massive tree. Set around the area were a series of torches staked into the ground, each marked with a plastic skull at its base. Goblins, hobgoblins, and orcs stood guard, massed in squads and ready to fight, and at the tree itself, was Misha, or rather Anathemar.

He was dressed in furs and heavy armour, plates and chain covering most of him, a pair of furry long-gloves on his hands and arms to create the illusion of a creature covered in hair. He wore furry, prosthetic pointed ears, and tusks, and his face was painted in a shaggy golden brown, highlighted and shaded to imply more fur. He wore a helmet to disguise his bald head, and a massive sword dragged on the ground behind him, held in one hand. He stood by the tree, holding a knife in his free hand, and currently had his attention turned to Doc, who was tied to the tree with hempen ropes, bound with his arms above his head around a low-hanging branch and his torso and legs bound directly against the trunk. He was shirtless, wearing tall, soft hide boots and a royal blue skirt that shimmered in the flickering firelight, long to his ankles in the back and just long enough to pass his knees in the front. Leather vambraces covered his forearms, and his skin was covered with a fine layer of blue sparkles, glitter that would likely take weeks to wash away properly. His face was made up with blue eyeshadow and painted on designs, all sparkling, and he wore long prosthetic ears and a pair of light, foam antlers strapped atop his head. He had contacts in, and his bright blue eyes were wide in horror as he screamed in a mixture of agony and desperation. Red lines of paint and fake blood cris-crossed his chest and belly, which rose and fell rapidly with the hurried breaths of the tortured faerie prince.

“My prince!” Pyro cried. The town knew Aelfric, having dealt with him and his court before on other occasions, and the fae-blooded PCs in particular had a fondness for him.

Anathemar sliced Aelfric again, one finger tipped with red makeup as he drew it and the foam knife across his chest, leaving a mark in his wake. Then he turned, grinning with tusky menace at the townsfolk come for them. He held up a hand, and the goblins who had begun to approach them stopped. “You have killed my captain, and seek to save your faerie prince? I am very busy interrogating my captive, humans.”

“The fuck you mean, 'humans,' asshole?!” Scout yelled, interrupting him.

Misha screwed up his face in rage in an effort to not laugh. The crack of a snicker from Doc behind him did not help things. Scout made ruining moments his business, and it was hard to keep a straight face when monologuing around him. “SILENCE HIM!” Anathemar bellowed, lifting his sword in one hand to point it square at Scout.

Scout was confused a moment, about to speak, when suddenly he felt warmth behind him, and the press of a latex dagger into his back, where a real blade would pierce through to reach his heart. The scent of old smoke met his nose, and he froze in shock. A French accent met his ears, the natural speaking voice of the satyr NPC who had brought them here. “Assassinate. Final stage of death count, mon ami,” he announced with a grin, leaning over Scout's shoulder to look him in the eye as he spoke the words.

The elf gave him a small, impressed smile, then let out a horrible death gurgle and tensed. The knife left his back, and he crumpled to the ground, dying. Screams went up from the crowd, and Mundy grabbed one of Scout's short swords from his body, giving chase as the satyr tried to dash to his escape. “A BLOODY SPY!”

Anathemar laughed, dropping his knife and taking up a battle stance, his sword held in both hands and at the ready. “Did you think any would escape my wrath? I lead you into the wilds, where you have no defenses, no buildings to siege. I will slay you here in the dirt, then burn your homes to the ground! Your baron will learn price of courting the fae and challenging the might of Grak'nash's brood!” With a roar, he charged, and so did his troops, screams of terror and aggression filling the night as foam blades flashed and spell packets flew, imaginary blood soaking the forests of the rented Girl Scout camp on which they played.

 

*

 

The diner was crowded. Sunday mornings were busy times anyway, but on LARP weekends, it was a nightmare to organize. Amid the usual crowd filtering in from churches, flea markets, and yard sails, a troupe of fifty-odd people in ages varying from teen to approaching elderly shuffled in like exhausted zombies, smelling of wood smoke and body odor and frequently covered in dirt and leftover face paint. Unusual was the head of hair was wasn't at least slightly greasy. The diner's employees had given them a side dining area they usually didn't open except during dinner rushes, to sequester them away from normal patrons, and pushed tables together so they could eat as a more cohesive group. The LARPers were known big spenders, having usually only eaten one large meal the whole weekend, and burned quite a bit of it off pretending to slaughter one another with weapons made of plumbing supplies. Mind, most of the diner staff had no idea what these people did before entering their restaurant, just that whatever it had been had left them gross, exhausted, and ravenously hungry. And frequently, very generous tippers, acknowledging the trouble they tended to be.

Doc sighed as he rubbed at a forearm, miniscule blue sparkles catching the light and drawing his attention. Baby wipes had helped remove most of the makeup and glitter that he had been covered with the night before, but it hadn't finished the job completely. “Ach, this glitter.”

“Hope you like blue sparkles, Meesh,” Scout chuckled, elbowing Misha beside him. “That real tiny stripper glitter's like the herpes 'a craft supplies. Ends up where you don't want it an' never goes away.”

“There is place you want herpes to end up?” Misha replied, stirring sugar into his coffee.

“Preferably, nae on ye,” Tavish supplied with a laugh.

“Suppose if you're into some faerie prince roleplay, it'd be good for the bedroom,” Mundy chuckled, earning an elbow from Tavish.

“Nae in the diner, ye daft pervert!”

A few laughs later, the players fell into amicable silence, others chatting nearby as they ate. A loud sigh came from beside Mundy, a French accent complaining, “Merde, I feel as though I have not slept in two days.”

“Spook, that's 'cause you've not.”

Spook looked up from being hunched over his coffee, his eyes bloodshot with heavy circles under them. “I suppose that is why, then,” he shrugged, then took a hefty swig. “This is the last time I decide to full-time NPC. While that betrayal last night was satisfying, I cannot handle the sheer level of back-and-forth running. Dell, you are a slave-driver.”

“Y'had fun, didn't you?”  
  
“...oui.”

“Then that's all that matters,” Jane joined, holding a sausage up with his fork to gesture.

“Not gonna lie, I am looking forward to gettin' some sleep, too,” Mundy admitted with a stretch.

“ _I'm_ looking forward to next event!” Pyro chirped, entirely too chipper compared to everyone else. They wore the dark circles of sleeplessness much better than the others, and was among the few without much dirt ground into their skin. Having none exposed while PCing went a long way toward that, of course. They tucked a lock of hair behind their ear and lifted their orange juice to their lips, pausing to send a look down the table to Helen, who was talking with Miss Pauling, an evil smile across her thin lips. “How many player deaths this weekend, Helen?”

Helen looked over, did some mental math, then called back, her voice carrying over the din with authority, “Three!”

“Yeah, an' one was me. Thanks, Spook,” Scout grumbled, a smile cracking through his affected grumpiness.

“You are quite welcome. I'll gladly stab you any time.”

“Yeah, well, you gotta wait 'til next month for another shot at that.”

“I will hold you to it.”


End file.
